Tag: children's books

I have sympathy for Lost Causers. And love lying. But I also understand it’s a tough position. It hurts to be out of step with culture. And history. And the avowed, public, Cornerstone positions of your idols. Cognitive dissonance is painful, and the stupid suffer in silence.

Constant, screaming silence. Across reenactments, imageboards, and coup attempts. I’d love five noisy minutes. Maybe if Sherman had done his thing a little longer.

Today’s junior propaganda is Confederate Alphabet, written by Rickey E. Pittman. And if you look carefully, illustrated by Stephanie Ford. Considering how thin the writing is, it’s odd the bulk of the labor’s taken for granted. Seems ungentlemanly.

But I’m made of opinions, despite Lee’s best efforts. I’ll let this one pitch itself:

I used to drink a lot, so this looks harmless. “Little Confederates” evokes a preschool hate group, but history matters. An education shows the whole picture, warts and all. Otherwise you get Americans that think Dresden’s just a snarky wizard. Kids should understand the Confederacy, to whatever extent picture books can cover mandingo fights.

But let’s double-check. What’s “S,” in this Civil War book about the Civil War?

Checks out. After all, we fought over his nickname.

Secession Street has a gifted team. Stephanie’s a triple threat: a hopeless reenactor, illustrator, and writer. Her broken website includes a few works of historical fiction, some intentional. Including a Confederate sharpshooter’s journey to the Boshin War. I guess she found The Last Samurai too sensitive.

Rickey Pittman’s known as the “Bard of the South,” meaning he calls himself that and registered bardofthesouth.com where he promotes Stonewall Jackson’s Black Sunday School, a children’s book I own. I almost covered it for Black History Month, until my extended family provided feedback. Confederate Alphabet’s our compromise, and I’ll be out of the hospital by April.

I rarely mock dedication pages, but the art pulled me in. The margins are a world tour of insults. This appears below Singapore’s dragon:

Besides, Chattel Slavery and You is special. What does Rickey love, book? I want to see it burn. Again.

The names Mason and Dixon were right there. What’s the point of bardic knowledge if you miss that? Years of chart-topping resentment anthems, thrown away. That’s like charging a mile without cover and hoping God sorts it out. But not quite as bad. You worship failures.

We’ll cover the rest of this brain graveyard in order.

Excellent start: Stephanie’s spared drawing a face. For all we mock Liefeld’s feet, they’re avoidable enough to save creator-owned comics. Stephanie spends the rest of this book drowning. She begged Rickey to name 26 ships, and he burned out at four.

Unfortunately, the flicker of talent dies here. This navy trivia’s the least stilted stanza, and Rickey has 25 letters to go. He’s smart enough to abandon consistent meter, but the ABCB pattern strains his ability to word good. He could learn from old spirituals, but that’s not the Bard of the South’s thing.

Depending on your childhood, that’s either a JibJab jingle, a Fallout deep-cut, a song your father mumbled at the bathroom mirror in full uniform, or a TikTok renaissance. Pittman loves “Dixie” enough to paste the full lyrics in his verse tribute to the South. He says “Now that you’re done with my garbage, here’s a better tribute to chattel slavery. Please pretend I gave you these feelings.”

It goes something like this:

At least other race war reporters try. I’ve never heard Tom MacDonald bite Burzum. Or a full Tom MacDonald track. But I assume there’s craft. You can’t just regurgitate stale zeitgeist.

We might not make it to space.

This one’s important, and not just for giving up on a clear thought per stanza. Rickey had a choice between sidestepping the Confederacy’s quirks, or celebrating everyone Django Unchained paraphrased. He never chooses, so the latter stands out.

I’m not saying every slave trader needs an asterisk. Or Klan founder. Or butcher of black prisoners. But the triple crown’s worth a line. It would only double this book’s length, tops.

Is that middle soldier meant to be…they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. Pelican Press is a real company. An editor would’ve been shot. They’d be in publishing hell with Kinja’s design lead.

Note: the propaganda quality peaks here. A kid might actually care about or remember a silly peanut song, instead of 19th century shipping or race war innovators. Rickey reprints the whole song.

Forget this page’s war between hand and crayon. Or Rickey stumbling over zero rhythm constraints. There’s a dumber problem.

I’m stuck on the strangest tokenism in print history. The Confederate Army used black people for manual labor and target practice. You know, unpaid work. There’s a word for that, but I can’t remember it. Only my love for Goober Peas.

Right! Misdemeanor possession. Black Southerners served as drug offenders.

The extra-fictional soldier above is reaching to an Antebellum version of Lil’ Orphan Annie. Resetting my Yankee preconceptions is very much the point. Or keeping me from growing them in the first place. Because this is a kid’s book, for children.

If I wrote a General Lee diss track, I’d start with his cult and jump right to his failure. Excellent work. Rickey’s getting a handle on this.

I know, General Lee deserves some credit. Without him, the Dukes would have driven the General Custer, and who needs that? Instead, Lee inspires everyone whose lips move when they read.

Hold the fucking telegraph. M is for Manasses, but we blew G on peanuts? Shenanigans. Between Grant and Gettysburg I’m surprised Rickey kept the letter. It’s the turning point in the alphabet.

I’m brainwashable. I’ve seen the closing credits of Eternals. You just have to ease off the gas a little bit. Think odd-numbered Thors. Keep Taika happy, and you can get away with anything.

Q’s a tough letter. But if I were power-washing history, I’d tiptoe around prewar slave catchers. It’s off-message. I’m not sure Quantrill even noticed the war, he was already a land pirate. The arson was muscle memory.

Giving propagandists advice sounds risky, but they’re much more about talking than listening. And I’m not sure Rickey’s even alive. He hasn’t published a new Hate on Phonics in a few years, and he is not the type who shuts up.

Stephanie. I’m rooting for you to succeed, but the effort isn’t there. This culture war skirmish only works when all three of us show up. The rebel yell’s the Confederacy’s crossover hit. This page should look good enough for plausible deniability on your college roommate’s wall.

I’ll try a compliment sandwich.

• You nailed the variation in rebel uniforms, which drifted to suggestions over time.
• These kids look like homunculi passing kidney stones.
• Nice hat.

Rickey’s a hack, so Y’s probably “Yankee.” I expect your best.

I’ve never desired representation less.

Granted, one could argue that these aren’t people, period. Just paint pens rising against their masters. I buy it. This could be the art supply version of Nat Turner’s revolt. But it looks like Tim Scott’s subconscious.

Beautifully done. I support these images and words without reservation, down to the burning shack in the distance. They’re aspirational. Rickey could republish this page and call it “The Audacity of Cope.”

Or the whole book. There’s a market.

Right, Americans cosplaying Frenchmen cosplaying Algerians. Great trivia, Rickey. But did you know that Z is the last letter? The ending of your book? Think bigger. Rewriting history in crayon takes work, and I can still remember Dred Scott. That’s no way to train the next Greg Abbot.

Granted, there’s a timeline of the war after this. You’d assume it’s impossible to make a five-year mass bloodletting boring. But it strips out slavery, Union wins before Gettysburg, and everything between Gettysburg and Appotomax. Leaving…ships and goober beans. I don’t know why Rickey’s all-in on peanuts, Carver’s estate gets a cut of every shell. Those are Emancipation Beans.

Maybe I’m nitpicking. But brainwash your children carefully. Cliches and quarter-truths could leave them insane and stupid. Then what use will they be in the rematch?

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Mort, who drives the Union equivalent of the General Lee – a sensible gray Honda CR-V.